


Good Omens

by englishable



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 17:51:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5426231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englishable/pseuds/englishable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is no longer the sort of person to believe in stories, but apparently this does not discount charms: even for things as minor as predicting whether your child will be a boy or a girl. Sansa, Tyrion, one-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Omens

...

Tyrion lets the golden chain drop down link by link, passing each one between his thumb and forefinger until its end hovers just above his wife’s opened palm. Sansa’s face is flat with concentration, her brow lineless-smooth as a field of new snow, and he could find this amusing if she weren’t quite so sincere.

Instead he holds his peace and waits. So does Sansa.

The chain remains steady for a beat or two longer, weighted by a garnet ring from his finger: and then slowly, almost imperceptibly, flashing in the hearth’s firelight, it begins to swing back and forth.

“Ah,” Tyrion says. “Which is that for? A girl?”

“That means a boy, my lord.”

Sansa does not turn her eyes up towards him yet. She watches the chain keep its steady iambic meter, back and forth and back and forth. 

And all the while something – their child, Tyrion must needs call it now, their son – is silently uncurling itself within the cradle of her blood. The copper hair falls unbound across her shoulders, the dress’ seams pinched around her vanishing waist.

(Tywin’s face passes briefly across his memory, its expression iron-hard and heedless as the blade of an executioner’s ax.)

“I see. My sincerest apologies.” Tyrion tries to smile, and he feels it snag against the old, stiffened scar where his nose used to be. “May fortune help the poor lad if he and I have any more in common than that.”

Now Sansa does look at him.

With the no-nonsense grip of a gambler at dice, she closes her opened hand: around the ring, around the pendulous chain, around his own hand gathered into a fist.

“Oh, yes,” she says, carefully. “I imagine inheriting that wit of yours will cause him no end of trouble.”

Then his wife smiles, because she sees he cannot manage it for himself; it is a debtless sort of exchange which they have both become well-accustomed to. And Tyrion stares down at their entangled fingers, long enough that the image becomes pressed into his memory like a signet in red sealing wax.

“…Well,” he finally laughs. “Let’s hope he has your good sense to go with it, then. It’s the only way he’ll survive.” 

…


End file.
